The Merrick Affair
by InFabula
Summary: The day had started innocently enough…the usual banter with Napoleon about who'd visit the warehouse, who'd pursue the beautiful Countess…the new assignment couldn’t have any bearing on his capture, surely.  He hadn’t even got near the warehouse.
1. Chapter 1 Capture

The Merrick Affair by InFabula

Chapter One: Capture

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

A/N This was published as part of a File 40 anthology a few years back. Thought I'd post it here too.

Illya Kuryakin's eyes fluttered open as he struggled back into consciousness. As he tried to ignore the thumping pain in his head that told him he had been knocked out for the nth time in his life, he took a look at his surroundings.

He was not surprised to find himself strapped into a chair—that was par for the course. The sterile sunlit room was unusual, however, more like a dentist's surgery or a hospital—he caught himself. The deepest, darkest Thrush prison would hold less terror. A nagging thought caught at the back of his mind; perhaps Thrush had learned of his aversion for all things medical. He didn't like where that was leading and distracted himself by studying his bonds.

Leather, he noted, strong and tough, holding his wrists and ankles firmly in place. Another strap was buckled over his thighs and yet another around his chest. Illya tested each in turn—all of them secure, all of them tight. He wasn't going anywhere.

Sighing, he went over the events that had led to his capture. The day had started innocently enough. A briefing with Mr. Waverly, the usual banter with Napoleon over which of them would follow up the lead on the warehouse and which of them would pursue the beautiful Countess…the new assignment couldn't have had any bearing, surely. He hadn't even got near the warehouse.

From what he could recall, he had walked out of Del Floria's and crossed the road to collect a paper. Then his world had gone black. He frowned. It took some nerve to abduct him in broad daylight right outside U.N.C.L.E. H.Q…nerve or stupidity. Still, it had worked…

He saw that his captors had relieved him of his watch, suit jacket and shoes and socks. That meant that he was minus communicator, explosives and anything else that would have been useful. Plus he had no idea of the correct time and cold toes. He flexed them nervously. There was nothing he could do but wait and he hated waiting.

In another part of town, Napoleon Solo's sixth sense told him all was not well. He had thought nothing of Illya breaking their lunch date—he knew his partner did not always work to the same clock as everyone else.

However, the sight of a dossier relating to their current assignment lying unopened on Illya's desk started the alarm bells ringing. Whilst he himself had been known to wing it on occasion, his partner was nothing less than thorough in his preparation. No way Illya would have gone off without checking this material.

Napoleon tried to raise him but there was no answer. With a furrowed brow, he pushed the picture of the attractive Countess to one side; memorizing her favorite hobbies would have to wait.

No one in Communications had heard from Illya; no one had seen him since first thing that morning. He checked with Jerry in Del Floria's.

"Mr. Kuryakin? I saw him come in early as usual. I haven't seen him since he left about eleven-thirty."

Straight after the initial briefing. Napoleon racked his brains. They had left Waverly's office, Illya still complaining about being given the less glamorous end of the assignment and they were heading up the corridor…what else had happened? They had arranged to meet up for lunch and Illya had muttered something about buying a paper. That was the last time they had spoken.

A paper…that would have been from the stand across the road. Napoleon set off to investigate.

The paperboy was singularly unhelpful until a five-dollar bill was waved under his nose; then his memory came flooding back.

"Blond gentleman? About so big?" He waved a hand somewhere near Napoleon's elbow.

"Mmm-hmm," Napoleon agreed, making a mental note to tease Illya when he caught up with him.

"He bought a paper off me and then I had a couple of customers but I saw him driven off in the back of a car. He looked like he was sleeping." His eyes flicked down to the cash.

Napoleon added another five-dollar bill.

"A description of the driver? A truthful one," he warned, noting the gleam in the boy's eye.

Crestfallen, the boy shook his head. "I didn't really see much. A guy, dark hair, dressed in a suit. That's it."

"What about the car?"

"Black. Ford Sedan. New York plates." Without hesitation.

"Any more detail on those plates?"

"It began with BR and it definitely had a 56 in it."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

"I'm a baseball fan," the boy said by way of explanation.

"Of course." And it did make sense. It wouldn't have done so to Illya but Napoleon recognized Babe Ruth's initials and the fabled hitting streak of Joe DiMaggio.

He gave the boy the money and headed back across the road deep in thought. Illya abducted. He sighed. The Countess was going to have to wait a little longer.


	2. Chapter 2 Know Thine Enemy

Chapter Two: Know Thine Enemy

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

A few hours had passed and Illya's brain was racing. Who was behind this? Thrush was a prime candidate but it wasn't really their style. The Thrush Illya had come to know and loathe would have left him with guards and in a great deal more anguish. As it was, he was relatively unscathed. His stomach growled to remind him that he had been sitting for some time in this room. Well, he'd been hungry before; better to be hungry than in pain. Kidnap? A possibility. Private revenge, then. That narrowed it down to a few hundred suspects. He briefly wondered whether it had anything to do with Napoleon. He gritted his teeth. If it did, it would take a while before he prepared himself to forgive him…

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening and the entrance of a young woman carrying some files. Of average height and slim build, with long raven black hair, she had striking good looks. _Definitely to do with Napoleon_, Illya muttered darkly to himself.

"Mr. Kuryakin? We haven't met." She crossed the room slowly till she stood in front of him. "My name is Carlotta."

"Carlotta." Illya inclined his head in acknowledgement. His nostrils twitched as he recognized the exclusive perfume. He had already noted her designer suit. Expensive tastes… "You'll have to excuse me for not getting up."

She laughed. "Exquisite manners, even under such circumstances."

She looked down at him, considering, then suddenly lunged forward and kissed him hard on the mouth, forcing his head back. There was no passion in the kiss but there was exceptional violence. Carlotta bit down hard on his lower lip, causing him to exclaim with the unexpected pain. As she pulled away, he tasted the blood in his mouth and ran his tongue gingerly over the bite.

She stood smiling at him again, all self-control once more. "I'm sorry about that, Mr. Kuryakin, it's just that in the flesh, you're a whole lot…" she tailed off. "I'll try not to let it happen again."

Terrific, Illya thought. Another unstable madwoman who found him attractive. His day just kept getting better and better. She seemed relaxed, as if it were perfectly natural to conduct a conversation with a man in bondage. Who knows, Illya reflected, perhaps she's used to this. He tried in vain to recall the name, a connection, anything.

"No doubt you're wondering why you're here."

Illya went with the obvious. "I thought a little bird might tell me."

"Thrush? You may well be among their top ten most wanted but I doubt even they would dream of snatching you right outside U.N.C.L.E. HQ."

Illya nodded. Well, there was always flattery; it worked so well for his partner. "I can't imagine I would ever forget such a lovely face…" He paused as he saw her amused look.

"Such compliments, Mr. Kuryakin. Surely more typical of Mr. Solo."

He knew it! _Napoleon, my friend_, he swore silently, _when I get out of here, you are for the long jump. _

"Might I then enquire why you decided to detain me? I can't believe you usually need to abduct men in order for them to keep you company."

Carlotta leaned forward, placing her hands over his. He felt her full body weight pressing down as she leaned over him, bringing her dark green eyes close to his face. "I am Dr. Samuel Merrick's daughter."

She was rewarded by the sight of recognition in Illya's eyes and a flicker of something else—fear?—before his face settled once again into an impassive mask.

Straightening up, Carlotta continued in the same bright tone she had adopted throughout: "As I'm sure you'll realize, I have looked forward to this moment for some considerable time. My late father meant everything to me… I have planned for the moment when I would meet the man who killed him."

Illya's stomach was doing somersaults. He was now grateful it was empty. Assignments came and went but some stuck in the memory and the Merrick affair had been particularly grim. Napoleon and he had given up hiding behind the shield of repartee which protected them from the realities of what they did and saw. In Illya's mind, it had been no accident that they had tracked Merrick down to South America: he could quite believe that Merrick had had some Nazi sponsors.

He focused his attention again on Carlotta. She was busy pinning telephoto shots up on the wall. He recognized himself as the subject.

"As you can see, I am well prepared, Mr. Kuryakin. I have made a study of you and your habits. Certain information has been obtained from other sources."

He glanced at the dossier on the table and saw telltale signs of Thrush paperwork.

"You seem to have followed the Boy Scouts' motto," he congratulated her. He wanted to keep the talk light: he pushed away the worry of what would happen when the lightness went.

"Oh, I know lots about you, Illya!" Carlotta seemed delighted to show off her knowledge. "I know you're a polyglot, you're ambidextrous, you enjoy good food—vodka of course!" She started to count the facts on her fingers. "You are an excellent marksman, an accomplished hand-to-hand fighter, a skilful fencer and a gifted master of disguise. You are a proficient musician, which most people know, and an expert at poker, which most people don't. You keep people at a distance not trusting close relationships except that with your partner whom you trust with your life."

She stopped, a little breathless. "As you can see, I've done my homework."

"Full marks," he agreed.

"I enjoyed getting close to you, Mr. Kuryakin." Back to his formal title, he noted. "I wanted to make sure I really understood my father's murderer."

"Look, Miss Merrick…Carlotta," he took a chance on using her first name. "Your father was a talented surgeon—"

"A genius!" she insisted.

Illya ignored the interruption. "But at the end, he was insane. I had no choice. He was holding a scalpel to a boy's throat. He'd already maimed over fifty children before we caught up with him—"

"Sacrifices have to be made at the altar of greatness! Their place in history would have been assured!" she spat the words out.

All hope of reasoning with this woman left Illya's mind when he saw the hint of madness in her unblinking eyes. Like father, like daughter, he decided heavily. He stared silently up at her, seeing the tautness in her face. She reminded him of a coiled cobra, unpredictable and deadly.

"Tell me, Miss Merrick," he said to break the silence and the tension. "Did you follow in your father's footsteps?"

"Me?" She laughed out loud. "I'm in real estate."


	3. Chapter 3 Waiting and Wondering

Chapter Three: Waiting and Wondering

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

A/N: Because I know it's in here...a sincere thank you to Mr David Mamet for one of Napoleon and Illya's exchanges. Mr D, you have a marvellous way with words. Anyone who has seen "The Untouchables" will spot it in an instant.

Napoleon rubbed his eyes and took another swig of black coffee. He had told Waverly of Illya's disappearance and had steeled himself to do battle with the Old Man. No doubt, he would be told that Illya could look after himself and that the assignment in hand was the most important thing.

But Waverly had surprised him. It seemed he took a very dim view of agents being snatched right in front of his nose. "Locate Mr. Kuryakin with all speed, Mr. Solo," he had instructed. "I don't want our enemies to think they can do this with impunity."

Napoleon had half-heartedly played devil's advocate, protesting "But the Countess—the warehouse—"

"Both will still be waiting when Mr. Kuryakin rejoins us. Now see that he does."

That had been four hours ago and Illya had been missing for over six. Napoleon knew that leads had to be acted on while they were hot but he had precious little to work with. He had Records call up a photo selection of possible villains: an eclectic mixture of criminals, Thrush personnel and megalomaniacs with whom Illya and he had had run-ins over recent years. He had then taken the paperboy into U.N.C.L.E. HQ custody and had him look at each one in turn. The paperboy whose name was Johnny was not impressed.

"Look, mister, I told you. I don't remember the guy. I'd help if I could, honest I would."

"Just look at the photos, Johnny. Maybe something will jog your memory." But none of them had.

Records had accessed a long list of possible vehicles that matched the description of the car. Napoleon had assigned three teams of agents to work on this list and ignored their mumbled protests.

He had held a brainstorming session with Waverly as to who might be responsible. It had yielded a few serious contenders but when he'd checked them out, they were all behind bars and accounted for.

Waverly had made discreet enquiries with other agencies. Nothing.

Napoleon had put word out to their informants in the underworld but so far no word had come back. If it was a kidnap, there was no ransom demand. It was as if Illya had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Napoleon stared down at the mountain of files he had pulled out of archive, cases which Illya had worked on either with him, with another partner or on his own. He knew instinctively that the answer lay in one of them. So far he had been thoroughly through less than twenty. He stared at the next one with unseeing eyes as his mind wandered and wondered where Illya was. Alone. Tortured? Dying? He shook himself. Wherever he was, he was waiting for his partner to find him. He opened up the next dossier and read.

Carlotta had taken the file and the photos and had left Illya sitting in the semi-darkness of a winter afternoon. The only light came from a street lamp outside the window. He guessed that he was a couple of floors up. There was no noise from the street and he guessed again that the room was soundproof. No one had come when he had shouted so he had stopped shouting.

Dr. Samuel Merrick. He shuddered involuntarily. The last thing he wanted to do was think about that twisted mind but Carlotta's revelation made it impossible to do anything else. He and Napoleon had worked on the case some eighteen months ago. Once a respected scientist, Merrick had been driven out of America because of the extreme nature of his experimentation. Towards the end, he had been funded by Thrush: it was only a matter of time before he surfaced again and U.N.C.L.E. were watching for him.

Children were disappearing from the streets of Rio—nothing new there but they were reappearing some days later with limbs missing. Questioning these innocents had proved futile. They had been drugged and could not remember where they had been taken. Illya swallowed hard as he recalled gently pressing a small legless boy, no more than eight, for information.

"Where did you go?" he asked in Portuguese.

"A bad place," came the whispered answer.

"Who was there?"

"Monsters!" And the boy dissolved into tears, burying himself into Illya's shoulder.

Illya had looked down at the little boy clutching him and had met Napoleon's gaze. The two partners agreed silently; this had to stop.

It was the boy's older brother, Felipe, who had volunteered to be bait, something neither of the U.N.C.L.E. agents wanted to ask of a child but in the end, as Napoleon had said, really the only way they were going to find an answer.

The snatch was almost immediate and they had tracked Felipe and his abductors to a clinic in the hills. It looked from the outside like a health farm but Napoleon and Illya discovered a warren of underground chambers. They found their way in through the drainage system and padded silently past cells full of frightened children.

A turn in the corridor had led them into a macabre freezer room with neat rows of arms and legs packed in ice. "It's like an experiment at a concentration camp," Napoleon had whispered and Illya had not trusted himself to comment.

They moved on towards the main laboratory, overcoming guards they met along the way. Napoleon sent Illya up through the ventilation shaft whilst he burst into the room. Illya had heard Napoleon challenging Merrick: when he dropped silent as a cat behind the surgeon with his gun drawn, he briefly wondered why Napoleon had not already shot this madman. Then Merrick, sensing his presence, had swung round and Illya saw he held Felipe with a scalpel pressed to the boy's throat.

"I'm walking out of here," Merrick declared. "I shall continue my work elsewhere."

"Your work?" Napoleon asked in spite of himself.

"I am at the forefront of my field," Merrick boasted. "I shall go down in history as the first man to successfully transplant limbs."

"You don't seem to have been very successful so far," Illya remarked, his gun trained on the surgeon, his eyes ice-blue and unblinking.

"My day will come! I will be feted! I will be honored!"

Looking at the terrified Felipe and the trickle of blood that was running down his neck, Napoleon had heard enough.

"Have you got him, Illya?" he asked.

"I've got him."

Napoleon exhaled. "Take him."

And Illya drilled his shot straight into the middle of Merrick's forehead. Napoleon pulled Felipe out of the way. They set the children free. And that had been that.

Until now. He comforted himself with the thought that mad surgeons did not run in the Merrick family. However, as an abductor, Carlotta could carve out a whole new career. Isolation, physical confinement…he could only hazard a guess as to the time… No food, no water…nothing on his feet so that even if by some miracle he had freed himself, he wouldn't be running very fast…and above all, the waiting. Illya realized that anticipation could weaken a man's defenses more quickly than actual punishment. Depending on the man, of course—he knew he was made of sterner stuff than most. Very well, he would sit and he would wait. He tried to ignore the cramps in his toes and to take no notice of the shadows. Above all, he told himself to pay no heed to his imagination.


	4. Chapter 4 Familiar Faces

Chapter Four: Familiar Faces

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

Napoleon heard an insistent buzzing and floundered absent-mindedly for his alarm clock before realizing that he was not in his apartment but in fact at his desk. He shook himself out of the depths of concentration before answering the intercom.

Wanda summoned him to reception where a young blonde girl in her twenties was standing. Napoleon unconsciously stood taller and adjusted his tie.

"Mr. Solo?"

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Marie Carlton, Johnny's sister. And Johnny has something to say." She reached behind her and pulled the reluctant paperboy in front of her.

Responding to a prod from his sister, Johnny squinted up at Napoleon. "One of those photos you showed me…I think it was him."

"Why didn't you say so earlier?" Napoleon was curious.

Johnny hung his head until Marie prodded him again. "There was a show about the Yankees on the radio. I wanted to listen and I figured if I told you, you'd ask more questions and I wouldn't make it home for the start."

Napoleon breathed out slowly, keeping the instant anger he felt from showing on his face. "No harm done, I'm sure. You ready to take another look?"

Johnny nodded, relief at avoiding a scolding written large across his face. He chattered as the three of them walked down the corridor to the records room.

"I didn't see him too well this morning but I reckon I've seen him hanging around on and off for the past two weeks. Like he was staking out the place."

Inside the room, he made a beeline to one of the pictures. Reaching past the boy, Napoleon picked up the photo and looked more closely. As he read the file name, his blood turned to ice.

Illya stirred from a fitful doze, his throat parched, and he tried hard not to lick his lips: somehow that made his thirst worse. He had been left on his own for some time now and judging by the light outside, it was early evening.

Logic dictated that Carlotta did not mean to shoot him or she would have done so already. If she wanted to inflict physical torture, he hoped she would be limited by the thick leather straps. At some point, she would have to untie him. Illya decided that that was when he would make his move. Until then, he would have to save his strength.

Without warning, the door swung open. Carlotta strode into the room and switched on a spotlight directly in front of him. A tall man followed her. Illya blinked in the bright light, straining to see his face to try and identify him. Carlotta saved him the trouble.

"I think you may remember Dr. Marco Lander, my father's assistant."

The fear rose up in Illya again as the stranger moved forward out of the shadow. Yes, he remembered Lander, Merrick's protégé. Rumor had it that he had once disagreed with his mentor who had promptly cut out his tongue. Lander had escaped from the clinic in Rio and gone to ground. Illya decided the blurry photograph on file did little justice to the sadistic gleam in Lander's eyes. He recognized Lander as the man who had abducted him…was it only that morning?

"I thought about the price I would exact for my father's murder."

Carlotta walked round the back of Illya and bent down so that her mouth was next to his right ear. He did not take his eyes off Lander who was busy laying out row upon row of surgical instruments.

"I wanted to kill you at first but that would have been too quick, too easy," Carlotta purred. "I didn't want anything that was quick and easy. Physical torture would have been more satisfying but I've read the files on you. You stand up to pain very well."

In spite of himself, Illya shivered. Carlotta continued her circuit till she was in his line of vision, blocking out Lander and forcing his attention back to her.

"I thought about amputating your feet, taking your eyes, removing your tongue—Lander liked that option." She cradled his face in her hands. "Castration crossed my mind, Illya, and so did a lobotomy." Her fingers were in his hair now, twisting and pulling. He faced down her stare with a contemptuous bravado he did not feel. If he were honest with himself, bravery was very far from what he was feeling.

She let go of his hair with a jerk. "But I asked myself: did I really want to take your mobility?" Her words were punctuated with raking digs into his shoulder with a long, highly-polished fingernail. "Your speech, your sight, your…virility?" She dug deep again and he could not avoid wincing as she broke the skin under his shirt. "Did I really want to take your mind away?"

"And what did you decide?" he asked, his voice coming out more hoarsely than he would have wished.

She did not reply but ripped a hole in his left sleeve exposing his upper arm. She reached behind her and Lander carefully handed her a syringe.

_Keep her talking,_ Illya told himself, _keep her talking._

"Miss Merrick…Carlotta…I know the loss of a parent is bereavement of the worst kind—believe me, I know. But you have to understand that what your father was doing was wrong, it was evil. I had to stop him."

She was no longer listening to him. He watched in horrified fascination as she tapped the air bubbles out of the syringe and advanced towards him.

"Anaesthetic?" he whispered.

"Oh no, Mr. Kuryakin. I want you awake and experiencing every moment. But I can't have you moving. This is designed to paralyze voluntary muscle action."

He knew he had to speak, to do something quickly before she injected him but words died on his lips as he saw the undiminished hatred on her face. As the drug flowed into him, Illya felt his body relax and then start to lock. With eyes that could not blink, he watched as Lander moved forward. When he made the first incision, Illya tried to scream but the only noise in the still room was Carlotta's heavy breathing.


	5. Chapter 5 Rescue

Chapter Five: Rescue

Cross-referencing the car, Lander and an address had been a matter of moments. Napoleon had grabbed an agent as back-up and hared off to the modern office block in Midtown where Lander's clinic was housed.

All the lights were off but he was not ready to accept that no one was home. Napoleon checked his watch—after office hours: well, he wasn't waiting till the morning. Ignoring the look of disbelief on his back-up's face, he deliberately broke and entered. In the distance he registered an alarm sounding. Closer to hand, he made it silently through the entrance lobby and into the suite of consultation rooms.

After checking the ground and second floor, they climbed the stairs to the third aware that every second counted. Three of the rooms were empty offices; the fourth door was locked. Napoleon crashed through it, gun in hand, ready to take on whoever and whatever he found.

It seemed a bit of an anticlimax when he saw Illya, under a spotlight sitting quietly in a chair, his legs and chest strapped in. He seemed uninjured, if a little pale and Napoleon's heart leapt at the sight. A smile broke out on his face and his pulse gradually started to slow. This was so much better than he had imagined.

He holstered his gun, flicked on the main light switch and walked casually over to his partner. Idly, he noted that the straps over Illya's arms had been undone and he frowned. Something was not right with this picture. Why hadn't Illya freed himself?

"Syringe here, Mr. Solo," said the agent who had entered the room after him.

That was it. Illya had been drugged. Napoleon started smiling again and undid the heavy buckles.

"Don't worry, partner, the cavalry's arrived." He started to help Illya out of the chair.

"I am perfectly capable of walking." Illya's voice startled him with its monotone defiance. Napoleon backed off, hands in the air. Illya stood up and took a couple of steps but the hours he had spent in the chair had taken their toll. Unable to keep his footing, he fell forward and Napoleon caught him.

"Just take it easy, Illya," he reassured him. "You're in safe hands."

His partner shot him a hollow look in answer which Napoleon would have challenged but for the presence of the other U.N.C.L.E. agent and the desire to get Illya out of there.

Thornton, the chief medical officer, was speaking.

"Superficially, he's in much better shape than he normally is when he reaches us. There's evidence of a blow to the base of the skull, a minor cut or bite on his lip that I don't think was self-inflicted and an abrasion on his shoulder. His muscles are stiff from the confinement and he may be hungry and thirsty but I would hardly call him malnourished or seriously dehydrated. Blood tests show traces of a paralysis drug. There's a few anomalies—we're continuing to check."

Napoleon saw Mr. Waverly nodding and he shifted restlessly in his chair. Something was very, very wrong with Illya. He had feigned unconsciousness on the way back to HQ and said no more than two words to Napoleon after his arrival. More unusually, he hadn't protested once when the medical staff had undressed him and put him to bed. A little hurt and very much confused by Illya's behavior, Napoleon had left him lying, staring at the ceiling.

"We can address all that." Thornton turned to face them. "What's concerning me is his refusal to tell us what happened. Illya isn't talking. Not to me, anyway."

The last words were laden with meaning and Mr. Waverly nodded at Napoleon. "Go and find out, Mr. Solo. Don't come back until you know."

Illya's eyes were still fixed resolutely on the ceiling when his partner entered the medical section. "Go away, Napoleon," he warned.

Napoleon ignored him and moved closer to his friend, perching on his bed. "Would you rather talk to Mr. Waverly?" He left the thought hanging in the air.

It had the desired effect. Illya's gaze flickered and came to rest on his partner's face. "I don't want to discuss it."

"Obviously. But you need to. And you know you need to." Napoleon cocked his head on one side. "Come on, Illya, talk to me," he coaxed.

"Napoleon…" Illya closed his eyes. "Don't…"

"Don't what? Don't make you?" Napoleon could feel himself getting angry. Whatever Illya had gone through, he wanted to put it right but he couldn't unless the stubborn mule he called a partner opened up. "Illya, I only want to—"

"Help. I know." And still he lay there, eyes closed, unmoving.

Sympathy wasn't working: time for another tactic. Napoleon stopped biting down on his anger and let rip. "Illya, I've seen you in here after you've been whipped, electrocuted, beaten to a pulp, drugged out of your mind…you've lain here half-incinerated with nearly every bone in your body broken and on more than one occasion, I've sat at your side willing you back from certain death."

He was into his stride. "Now, I've spent what seems to be one of the longest days of my life picturing you dead or worse. When we learned Lander was involved, I thought I was going to find you minus your legs. Instead you're practically unscathed and you're ten times worse than the cheery little patient you normally are when rescued."

He took a deep breath before continuing: "Where's your fight? What happened that was so bad you lost your nerve?"

Haunted blue eyes looked up at him and Napoleon brought the weight of their friendship to bear as he returned the stare. Again, it had the desired effect.

"She took my hands." It was little more than a whisper.

Napoleon felt himself staring stupidly down at Illya's two hands lying motionless on top of the blanket.

"She what?" He shook his head as if to clear it. "Who she?"

Illya was silent, not trusting himself to speak and then began a dispassionate monologue accounting for his time spent at Carlotta's pleasure. His voice shook a little as he started to relive the nightmare.

As Lander operated, Carlotta kept Illya's head turned towards her, her eyes on his. She spoke softly, irresistibly, with the insane logic that more than anything else marked her as her father's daughter.

"It's very simple. The fingers comprise bone, nerves, blood vessels, and tendons. There are two sets of tendons in each finger: the flexors, which allow the fingers to bend in to the palm of the hand, and the extensors, which, as their name suggests, allow the fingers to stretch out, away from the palm. Dr. Lander is currently severing all the tendons in your fingers. Don't worry, he'll make a very neat job. You won't be able to tell from the outside that your beautiful hands are useless."

She had then undone the leather straps holding his arms in place; with the drug in his system, they were unnecessary.

"Think, Mr. Kuryakin. After Dr. Lander has finished, you won't be able to hold a gun, throw a knife, hit anyone…no more chess or poker…no more music…you'll need help to dress, to wash, to feed yourself, clean yourself… What use do you think you'll be to U.N.C.L.E. then?"

Licking her lips, she had leaned in and whispered the coup de grace.

Napoleon held his emotion in check with difficulty as he dragged the tale out of his unwilling partner.

"Then she—they left me there." He repressed a shudder at the memory of the farewell kiss Carlotta had forced on him. "The drug wore off. I couldn't move my fingers." Illya turned his face away. "I can't move my fingers."

Napoleon reached forward and pulled Illya into an embrace. The Russian's stiff body relaxed slightly as Napoleon held him. He would not, could not ask for comfort but neither could he refuse it when it was offered. The trauma of the day washed over him and he started to shake. Napoleon rocked him gently till he stopped. "Enough," he whispered. "Sleep now."


	6. Chapter 6 Future

Chapter Six: Future

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

Thornton threw some photos down in front of them. Napoleon could see the tiny horizontal marks running above each knuckle on Illya's hands. Under a magnifying glass, they looked red and angry. No doubt but they had been freshly inflicted.

"It's little comfort, but this must have been the work of brilliance. Lander was pinpoint with his surgery. He must have sliced through the tendons like a knife through butter." Thornton shook his head. "Without anesthetic, dear Christ."

"What can be done for Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly asked.

Thornton swallowed. He had been dreading that question. "I've got the top men in the country flying in tomorrow. McCormick's a good man and Delamare specializes in work with bomb victims. I have every confidence."

Waverly cleared his throat. "And what is the prognosis?"

The chief medic studied the floor for a moment then decided to bite the bullet. He looked the U.N.C.L.E. chief straight in the eyes and said, "If these two can't help Illya, I don't know who can. Severed tendons can be repaired but there can be nerve damage and untold complications. It's possible that he'll never recover the full use of his hands." Taking Waverly's curt nod as dismissal, he left.

Napoleon realized he had been holding his breath. Now, he let it out slowly. He glanced over at his boss who was digesting the information. Waverly seemed to be coming to some sort of decision.

"Mr. Solo, you will brief Mr. Carruthers on your current assignment and instruct him to follow up the lead on the warehouse. I expect you to make contact with the Countess tomorrow."

"Sir, what about Illya?"

"You heard the good doctor. The experts are arriving. We'll know more when they've carried out their examination."

Napoleon rarely stood in open opposition to his superior because he respected him too much but this was one of those times.

"Mr. Waverly, this is Illya we're talking about. He's my partner and my friend and this-this—" he searched for the words, "horrific, barbaric experience he's been through…he needs all the support he can get. I don't want to leave him on his own at the moment."

"Mr. Solo," Waverly's tone was quiet reason but Napoleon heard the steel in his voice, "you will remember that you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent and that you have a duty to perform. I expect you to carry out that duty. There is nothing you can do to help Mr. Kuryakin but there is a great deal you can do to help U.N.C.L.E. Do I make myself clear?"

Napoleon looked mutinous but knew that short of disobeying Waverly's direct order he had little option but to do as he was told. He did however have one burning question that he badly needed an answer to. "Sir, if the doctors can't help Illya, what will become of him?"

Waverly leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded. "Mr. Kuryakin has endeavored to do his best by us: we will endeavor to do our very best by Mr. Kuryakin."

No answer at all, Napoleon thought grimly. He nodded, turned on his heel and left, heading straight for the medical section.

He was asleep when he arrived. Napoleon looked down at him and his lips twisted into a thin, set line as he thought about what his partner had been through.

Illya stirred and came instantly awake as he saw Napoleon. They regarded one another for a moment then Napoleon broke the silence. "Waverly's sending me out tomorrow."

"Makes sense. There's nothing you could do here anyway."

"He wants Carruthers to follow up the warehouse lead."

"Makes more sense. Leads can only go cold."

"Illya—"

"Don't, Napoleon," Illya warned and Napoleon knew he didn't want to hear pity or sympathy.

He glanced at the IV feed. "Have you eaten anything solid since you came back?"

Illya bristled. "I have no desire to be fed like a child by some well-meaning nurse."

"How about by an understanding partner?"

Illya wavered then capitulated. "I could eat a horse," he confessed.

"Let's settle for steak."

Over the T-bone and the beer, they were finally able to talk freely.

"Nervous?"

Illya chewed on the meat, considering. "Wouldn't you be?"

"I'd be terrified," Napoleon said quietly.

Frank blue eyes met serious dark ones.

"I've been running through the various outcomes. Most of them are…unwelcome."

"Best case?"

"They repair my hands and I carry on."

"Worst case?"

Illya hesitated. "I am detrained and sent home."

Napoleon looked at him sharply. "They wouldn't do that."

Illya shrugged. "It would be cheaper for Mother Russia to look after me than U.N.C.L.E.. If no one knew I couldn't use my hands, a good exchange could be made. They would guess I had been detrained but they'd hope I could be persuaded to remember."

"Waverly wouldn't do it," he insisted stubbornly.

"Napoleon, you are ever the sentimentalist. It would be a logical thing to do."

"I wouldn't let them."

Illya was silent, then smiled for the first time since he had been rescued. "I don't believe you would, my friend. Now go and get some rest…chasing Countesses is an exhausting business."


	7. Chapter 7 Despair and Hope

Chapter Seven: Despair and Hope

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

Alexander Waverly sat alone in his office with his thoughts. He had seen Illya briefly the previous evening before they had known the full extent of his injuries. Today he had accompanied the specialists to the medical section and stood while they examined half of his top partnership. A vital half, a half that he needed—no, he corrected himself, that U.N.C.L.E. needed back to full fitness.

Waverly had exchanged barely half a dozen words with Illya but he had accurately read the young man's despair. Thornton's experts had done nothing to lift the mood and the U.N.C.L.E. chief had struggled to hide his irritation at the way they had treated their patient as little more than a textbook problem, standing either side of Illya and arguing amongst themselves. As he stood at the foot of the bed, he had met Illya's eyes and had glimpsed the naked wretchedness therein. While the doctors were quarrelling, the silent conversation between the agent and his superior went on.

Now, he sat and contemplated the next step. Even without the full use of his hands, Kuryakin could still be of enormous use to U.N.C.L.E.. Waverly had already thought about employing his knowledge of languages as a code breaker or his scientific talent in the research labs. However, even though he did not think Illya would object to working out of the field, he could not see the proud, self-sufficient Russian asking for what he would perceive as charity. That meant at work and at home.

He knew that he must act quickly. Illya's pessimistic nature would doubtless be working on the worst case scenario. Sending Solo out on assignment had been a stalling tactic. He knew instinctively that Kuryakin would not do anything foolish without speaking to his partner. Waverly wanted to make sure that he did not do anything foolish at all.

The day had passed strangely for Napoleon. He had had little success making contact with the Countess: she had missed her morning archery lesson and at the afternoon's classical music recital, she had been moved to tears by the performance and had rushed out of the hall and away before he could approach her. He had been slow there, he conceded. He should have been ready with a large handkerchief and soothing words but he was working on autopilot: his mind was most definitely elsewhere.

Now he was back at U.N.C.L.E. HQ and as quickly as he could, he made his way to Medical. Illya was waiting for him.

"Well?"

"Not very."

"What did they say?"

"McCormick suggested grafting new tendons into my hands."

"That sounds promising."

"It's experimental surgery. He's looking for a guinea-fowl."

"Guinea-pig," Napoleon absently corrected. "What about Delamare?"

In answer, Illya nodded towards the bedside cabinet. Napoleon picked up the prosthetic hand that laid there.

"He wants to amputate my hands and fit me with two of those."

"Christ, no. Damn it, Illya, there must be something else we can do."

His partner lay silent for a moment, then apparently made up his mind and began to speak.

"Actually, there is. It's something Carlotta whispered to me before she left. She said I would need the help of a good friend and I think she had you in mind."

"Anything, you know that."

Illya took a deep breath. He'd been preparing this speech for most of the day. "I'm willing to let them try to repair my hands but if they can't do anything, Napoleon…I can't imagine a life without independence and freedom not after the life I've led…I want you to promise me that if that's the case, you'll—"

"No!"

"Napoleon, I am resolute on this."

"There is no way on earth I will help you!" Napoleon shouted the words with a real venom.

"My friend, you are the only one I can ask this of…the only one I trust—"

"Hell can freeze over first." Turning on his heel, Napoleon stalked out of the medical section, his face like thunder.

Illya sighed and laid back against the bank of pillows. It had gone pretty much as he expected.

"So tell me, is he contemplating suicide yet?"

Napoleon whipped round in his hallway and saw a woman matching Carlotta Merrick's description leaning against a neighbor's door.

"I just wondered how far gone he w—"

She stopped as Napoleon covered the ground between them at lightning speed and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Unable to speak, she clawed at his hands as they squeezed the life-breath out of her. Eyes wide, she saw death in the man's face and knew that she would not have the chance to talk.

For his part, Napoleon had switched into killer mode—no charm, no distractions, just the simple task of dispatching this woman who had harmed his partner.

From a distance he heard the sound of a safety-catch being disengaged but it took the pressure of a gun muzzle against his forehead before he let go of her and she dropped in an undignified heap on the floor.

Getting to her feet, rubbing her throat where she could picture the dark bruises forming, Carlotta nodded her thanks to her helper.

"I came to deliver a message," she croaked.

Napoleon cocked his head on one side, seemingly listening but in fact sizing up the opportunity of wresting the gun away from its owner. Carlotta's next words however held his attention.

"I can arrange for Dr. Lander to reverse the operation he carried out."

"Why would you?"

"I have my reasons."

Napoleon considered. "And what do you want from me in return?"

Carlotta smiled and leaned back against the wall, her former composure regained.

"And they said Kuryakin was the brains of the operation."


	8. Chapter 8 On the Move

Chapter Eight: On the Move

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

"Mr. Waverly?"

"Do come in, Doctor," Waverly took the pipe from his mouth and waved Thornton into his office. "Do you bring news?"

"I'm not sure what I bring," Thornton confessed. "It's those anomalies."

"Ah, yes, the anomalies," Waverly nodded his head sagely and waited for enlightenment.

----

Medical was quite deserted when Napoleon entered. Illya looked up, words of apology forgotten as he saw his partner's face which was a mixture of apprehension and barely suppressed excitement. "What is it?"

"I've been propositioned."

Illya raised his eyebrows.

"Lander can reverse the operation."

A series of emotions washed over Illya's face including surprise, relief and curiosity in equal measure before settling on suspicion. "What's the price?"

His partner ignored the question. "You have to leave tonight. Now, in fact." He held up a sweatshirt, tracksuit bottoms and sneakers and reached over to disconnect the IV feed.

"Napoleon—"

"If we don't act now we may lose the opportunity." He looked down at his partner. "Please, Illya."

"I'm not going anywhere till I've heard you explain what the deal is."

"Can't we walk and talk? Now? Before Thornton or another medic does the rounds?"

Illya started to argue then stopped, seeing the earnest look on Napoleon's face. He gave in and with a little help, struggled into the loose-fitting clothing, allowing his partner to lace him into the sneakers.

"Why the hurry?" he asked as they made their way to a little-used exit.

"Apparently, there's a time limit after which Lander can't undo what he's done."

"A time limit? That doesn't make sense!"

"Are you a doctor? Neither am I. And neither of us are mad scientists. The clock is ticking, my friend."

They emerged onto a back street and crossed hurriedly to Napoleon's car. As he was helped in, Illya began firing questions. "All right, where are we headed? Who contacted you? And what did you have to promise?"

Sliding behind the wheel, Napoleon answered as honestly as he wanted to. "Carlotta met me outside my apartment. She had some protection with her which is the only reason she lived long enough to deliver her message."

He pulled out into traffic and continued: "She told me she could arrange for Lander to repair what he did to you but that it had to be tonight. Otherwise, it's too late."

----

"Is it possible?"

Waverly thought back to his agent's account of the operation; the low lighting, Carlotta's serpentine voice. "Yes. It is possible."

"But do you see what it means? Illya said Thrush were involved. To double-cross them like this…" Thornton tailed off.

The U.N.C.L.E. chief shrugged. "Revenge can make one very blind."

A beep interrupted their conversation. Waverly answered an incoming call from Pinner, one of his Section 2 operatives.

"Sir, Mr. Kuryakin isn't in his bed. And…I tried to call Mr. Solo but his communicator is disabled."

"Hmm. One moment." Waverly switched to another channel. "Miss Tyson? Kindly activate the tracking device on Mr. Solo's car."

"You bugged his car?" Thornton couldn't stop the disapproval showing.

Waverly shot him a look of pure ice. "For just such an eventuality," he said then switched back to Pinner. "Assemble a small team. Meet Dr. Thornton and myself in the communications room. Right, Doctor. Let's see whom we can flush out."

----

The two agents drove through the city toward the Upper East Side, Illya still puzzling aloud.

"Having gone to so much trouble to kidnap me and carry this out in the first place, why on earth would she make such an offer?"

"Maybe she got religion."

Illya contemplated the hatred that had oozed from Carlotta. "I find that very hard to believe." He shot a sharp glance sideways at his partner. "What did she want in return?"

"We're nearly there," Napoleon said by way of answer.

Illya could feel his temper, usually so well controlled, rising. "Very well, let me guess. They can't have made you promise to do something because once my hands were fixed, there would be nothing to stop you going back on your word. You didn't set off any alarms when we left so they haven't asked you to smuggle out any secret documents. That rather leaves you, doesn't it?"

Napoleon's grip on the steering wheel tightened; his eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.

A soft Russian curse came from his passenger. He turned angrily. "So what's the plan, Napoleon? They restore my hands, take you away and leave me free to go? Not very likely."

Napoleon pulled in to a parking spot in front of an up-market apartment block, sighed and came clean. "Carlotta said she would arrange for Lander to reverse the operation if I got you out of U.N.C.L.E. medical and came willingly with you. I think our little feathered friend will be waiting." He held up a hand to quiet Illya's protests. "It's undoubtedly a trap. A trap for both of us. But if there's a chance they can make you whole again…as for what happens after that…well, I never was a Boy Scout when it comes to promises," he said lightly.

Illya shook his head in disapproval but his expression showed that he accepted the futility of trying to persuade Napoleon to change his mind. "It still doesn't make sense," he argued. "If they wanted you, why didn't they just take you? They didn't need to offer you any deals. Why did they suggest this?"

Napoleon said nothing as Carlotta's words echoed through his mind: "I have unfinished business with Mr. Kuryakin."

"Tell me," he said as he helped Illya out of the car, "what would you have done in my position?"

Illya scowled. "The same, obviously."


	9. Chapter 9 Control

Chapter Nine: Control

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

The door to the penthouse suite was ajar. Napoleon knocked all the same, drawing his gun at the same time. He had mentally catalogued the escape routes up to this point and knew that Illya had done likewise. An agent's instinct never switched off.

Carlotta flung the door open and looked askance at the weapon. "Really, Mr. Solo. Guns aren't necessary. I fully intend to keep my side of the bargain." She caught sight of Illya in his casual clothing. "Ah, Mr. Kuryakin. Dress was formal on the invite, you know. How nice to see you again."

"I wish I could say the sentiment was mutual."

"Do come in, gentlemen. Dr. Lander is waiting."

The pair of them walked into the well-furnished apartment and all the metaphors of spiders and parlors ran through both their minds. The window to their left opened out on to a balcony overlooking the city and sitting at the dining table in front of it was Marco Lander, who nodded genially at both of them as if they had arrived for an evening's bridge party. To their right was a heavily stocked bar. The whole apartment exuded luxury and wealth. _Who said that crime didn__'__t pay_, thought Napoleon wryly. The lavish theme continued with the sprawling white leather sofa and armchairs in front of them. What held their attention, however, was the small, neat man dressed immaculately in a Saville Row suit who sat in one of the chairs with two heavy-set bodyguards standing behind him. The U.N.C.L.E. men glanced quickly at each other: Illya gave the smallest of frowns and Napoleon lifted his eyebrows a fraction. Neither of them knew who he was. Napoleon tightened his grip on his gun.

Carlotta indicated that they should sit down on the sofa: an invitation which they both ignored.

"Why don't we get down to business." It was Illya who broke the silence. "I understand from Napoleon that you have some deal to propose regarding restoration of my hands."

Carlotta walked over to the drinks cabinet and started to fix herself a martini.

"You speak with a great deal of authority, Mr. Kuryakin, for one who is in no position to dictate terms." She added an olive to her drink and sipped it delicately as she studied him. "I would suggest a vodka, but…" she waved an expressive hand in the air.

"Enough," Illya said, tight-lipped. He did not want to show her how successfully she had hurt him but was finding it hard to keep his tone neutral and the harsh anger out of his voice.

Carlotta, however, was enjoying herself too much to stop toying with him. She made her way over to the Russian. They were of similar height and the dark green eyes bored into the clear blue ones as she searched for evidence of his pain. "So what did they say in Medical, Illya? Did they suggest amputation?"

Napoleon saw his partner flush with impotent fury and decided to intervene. "Miss Merrick, I believe you have a proposition to discuss."

Carlotta drained her glass, her eyes never leaving Illya's. "All in good time, Mr. Solo. First I'd like you to meet an acquaintance of mine."

Napoleon's gaze switched straight to the stranger. Reluctantly, Illya looked away from Carlotta and followed suit.

The unassuming middle-aged man, who seemed almost lost in the big armchair, stood up. When he spoke, it was with a cut-glass English accent.

"Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Barrett. I am in the enforcement business for Thrush. Enforcement, persuasion, compulsion…there are many words for what I do."

Napoleon caught his breath and looked again at someone he would not have given a second glance if they had passed on the street. This was one of the unseen powers that be. No Thrush operative they had interrogated had seen his face; his name alone had been whispered with reverence. The fact that he had introduced himself did not bode well for either his own longevity or Illya's.

Barrett crossed the room, his guards in attendance and stood in front of Napoleon. "You may have been wondering what Thrush's interest is in all this," he continued pleasantly, his manner of delivery that of a schoolteacher explaining a difficult lesson to a pupil. "I am very willing to tell you, but first things first. Jackson?"

He stretched out a hand and from nowhere Jackson handed him a slim revolver fitted with a silencer. Taken by surprise, Napoleon started to train his own gun on the Thrush operative but before he could fully react, he felt a searing pain in his left thigh which told him where the silent bullet had entered. As he started to crumple to the floor, he tried to shoot back but Jackson had already moved to disarm him.

Illya was at his side in an instant. Napoleon waved away his concern. "I'm okay, I'm okay." The stream of blood pouring from his leg belied his words.

"Do help Mr. Solo up and bring him to the sofa," Barrett instructed.

Illya shot him a look which would have cowed many a man; Barrett was unimpressed. "Carlotta, could I trouble you for a towel? Bloodstains can be the very devil to remove and I wouldn't want to soil your apartment further."

Carlotta disappeared into an inner room and came back clutching a fluffy white bath towel which she laid on the sofa. Illya put his head under Napoleon's left shoulder and used his body strength to support him till they reached the couch.

"Stupid," Napoleon whispered to him as they sank in to the leather seat together. He wrapped the towel around his leg and pressed down on the wound to stem the blood flow.

Illya risked a small smile to himself. Hearing Napoleon admit he had made a mistake was rare enough that the event should be marked on a calendar. Looking up at the mild-mannered, thoroughly dangerous Barrett, Illya bit back on the smile. He had shot to wound, not kill, but like Napoleon, Illya had no doubt that this was only a temporary state of affairs.

"Now we've established that neither of you are going anywhere, I'll continue." There was no doubt where the balance of power lay in the room. Barrett went on, "Sometimes Thrush needs to… persuade people to cooperate who might otherwise have refused. You know how it is, it can get so messy when someone is stubborn. Once you've threatened to kill them or a loved one, you have to back that threat up. Even causing permanent mutilation can have the wrong effect. I've known the sight of a beautiful face scarred for life to drive a man over the edge. Makes him a bit of a loose cannon, I believe you would say, Mr. Solo. Thrush doesn't want that."

Barrett reached into his jacket pocket. Napoleon tensed but he pulled out a cigarette case and waved it towards Napoleon who shook his head. He motioned towards Illya and then a brief look of apology crossed his face. He lit up and went on: "We want control. We want someone to need us to repair the damage. That way, the people we persuade stay in line. And it mustn't be an empty promise. Merrick had vision and genius but he was operating on too grand a scale. It wouldn't have worked for us. We are indebted to Miss Merrick for acquainting us with the work of Dr. Lander. The technique he has carried out on Mr. Kuryakin here appears to have struck the right balance."

"Is that the reason for having me bring Illya here?" Napoleon asked, blinking back the pain. "So that Lander can demonstrate this new method of intimidation?"

"Indeed. I had hoped that this entire affair could have been carried out in Dr. Lander's clinic. Unfortunately, my plane was delayed and Miss Merrick started without me. I thought I had arrived in time to witness its conclusion, but by then you had liberated Mr. Kuryakin."

"I told you there was unfinished business," Carlotta purred from behind Barrett.

"In actual fact, Mr. Solo, it has worked out quite nicely. Not only can I see how effectively the threat and promise work—it made you bring Mr. Kuryakin away from the safety of U.N.C.L.E., after all—but I have two U.N.C.L.E. agents for the price of one. Time for proof, gentlemen."

Barrett motioned impatiently to his two guards who moved in unison. From behind the sofa, Jackson leaned down heavily on Illya's left shoulder with one hand and supported Illya's left arm at the elbow with the other. His right arm was similarly locked into extension by the other guard: one palm up, one palm down.

Illya started to move in protest but Barrett's gun had reappeared in the hand not holding the cigarette.

"This time, I will not be aiming for Mr. Solo's leg."

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents exchanged a grim look. Napoleon sat back on the couch, sick as he always felt after being shot and sick with apprehension over what Barrett had planned for his partner.

Illya gritted his teeth. "Get it over with," he growled then gave an involuntary cry as Barrett suddenly brought his lit cigarette down on his unprotected hands. Again and again, the Thrush man burnt him as Illya bit back on his pain. At no time did Barrett take his eyes off Illya's hands; at no time did Carlotta take her eyes off Illya's face.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity for the helpless, watching Solo but which was in fact no more than a few minutes, Barrett straightened up, satisfied, stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray and gestured to his men to release their hold.

Illya lowered his wounded hands shakily to his lap and let out an unsteady breath. Sensing Napoleon's unspoken anxiety, he shook his head; in relative terms, he was all right.

"Dr. Lander, I am impressed. As a student of anatomy, I am certain there is no way a man could have withstood that who had his tendons intact. And now I am very much looking forward to the second half of the operation as it were. Miss Merrick?"

Carlotta exchanged a glance with Lander and Illya could have sworn the doctor gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"All in good time, Mr. Barrett. I think I'd like to hear Mr. Kuryakin beg first."

At this, Illya could not repress a snort.

Barrett narrowed his gaze.

"Carlotta, you have been very useful to Thrush. Without you, we would have not had the chance to meet Dr. Lander as easily as we have. His pioneering technique might have been wasted on some altruistic purpose. In return for the introduction, we have furnished you with the information you required on your father's killer, we have set Dr. Lander up in practice and we have allowed this rather melodramatic episode with Mr. Kuryakin as a test experiment. An experiment that should have been concluded by now if you hadn't been careless enough to let U.N.C.L.E. rescue him. As I said you have been of great use but do not overestimate your present value to us."

Carlotta wasn't listening. "I just want Illya to plead a little. That's all."

"There won't be any pleading," Illya told her firmly.

"Miss Merrick, I will not ask you a third time."

Carlotta ignored the quietly spoken threat. "Then your hands stay as they are!" She pushed past Barrett and delivered a furious slap across Illya's face. "You'll never—" She stopped in mid-sentence and arched her back then with wide-eyed surprise collapsed on the floor.

Behind her, Barrett was reloading his weapon. "Johnson." He gestured towards Lander who, misunderstanding, started to back away in fright.

Illya watched with growing alarm as the surgeon edged through the open window on to the balcony: this was the one person who could repair the damage done to his tendons.

"Dr. Lander, I mean you no harm." Barrett's tone was quiet reason but Lander was beyond that. He retreated further onto the balcony moving away from the approaching guard.

Barrett tried again. "Dr. Lander…I am anxious to see your work come full circle."

Lander found himself pressed up against iron railings as Johnson stepped on to the balcony. He tried to move further away but started to overbalance. He swayed for a horrible moment between life and death and then fell. Illya realized that his deathscream was the first noise he had heard him utter; he exhaled slowly, knowing the certainty of having his hands back had died with Lander. He glanced over to Napoleon who had his eyes closed and was breathing shallowly and a whole new world of worry opened up.

There was a long, stunned silence and then Barrett let out an exasperated sigh.

"A pity." He turned back to Napoleon and Illya. "I would declare this whole thing a fiasco if it weren't for the fact that it delivered you two up to me."

"Sir?" The sound of Jackson speaking made Illya jump; he had decided that the Thrush guards were as mute as Lander had been. Jackson was listening intently to a radio earpiece. "Sir, Ground Control report that a small U.N.C.L.E. team are in the building. They'll be here any—"

At that instant the door to the apartment crashed open. Fighting off dizziness, Napoleon opened his eyes at the sound and recognized Pinner and Doyle, Morris and Townsend and Warrington and Lee as they entered the room, their weapons drawn. Illya, with more self-preservation than curiosity, threw himself at his partner knocking him sideways to the floor in anticipation of the gun battle that would ensue.

Barrett surprised them both however. "U.N.C.L.E. agents, I presume? Well, we surrender. Jackson, Johnson, be good enough to hand your weapons over."

As the guards complied and the three of them were led meekly away, Waverly and Thornton entered the room.

"Gentlemen," Waverly greeted them. "We met what remains of the unfortunate Dr. Lander downstairs. And this must once have been Miss Merrick." He moved delicately past the corpse to where the pair of them were sprawled.

"We bring some tidings, Mr. Kuryakin. Dr. Thornton?"

Thornton moved forward and exclaimed when he saw how badly Napoleon's leg was bleeding.

Napoleon felt himself on the brink of fainting but waved away his ministrations. "What about Illya's hands?"

Thornton beamed. "Good news," he announced and that was all Napoleon heard before consciousness deserted him.


	10. Chapter 10 Outcomes

Chapter Ten: Outcomes

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

He awoke late morning in Medical to see Mr. Waverly and Illya staring down at him.

"I brought you grapes," Illya said. "But I'm afraid you took so long to come round, we ate them."

"You…I…"

Illya filled in the gaps. "You've had the bullet removed. It nicked the femoral artery. You could have bled to death."

Napoleon digested the information and looked up at his partner. "What was the good news?"

"Lander didn't cut the tendons."

A grin broke out on Napoleon' face. "You're okay? How did they find out?"

"There were abnormalities with the blood tests and when Dr. Thornton checked, the only conclusion he could come to was that Lander implanted slow release paralysis capsules in my fingers to keep them immobile."

Mr. Waverly continued the story. "Analyzing the traces found in the syringe at the clinic, we established that Miss Merrick then used a powerful auto-suggestion drug to make Mr. Kuryakin believe they had carried out the operation. Tonight they were going to 'reverse' it. In actual fact, the paralysis was due to wear off anyway."

"That's why they were stalling," Illya supplied.

Napoleon lay back on his pillow, putting together the pieces of information. "So Carlotta gets assistance from Thrush because she wants revenge on Illya and they agree because she's their link to Lander."

"She exaggerates Lander's skill and then finds that time has run out. They want a demonstration. That's when they kidnapped me."

"You weren't supposed to leave the clinic. Barrett was supposed to witness the 'miracle' there"

"Your rescue was unexpected," Illya agreed. "But it gave Carlotta and Lander an excellent opportunity to demonstrate the supposed power of the technique. It got both of us to that apartment."

"And now…?" The question tailed off.

In answer, Illya held up his hands, the pattern of burns still livid on his pale skin, and slowly flexed his fingers. "It looks like I will be playing the piano again."

He returned Napoleon's direct gaze with a steady look of his own, a wealth of unspoken words flowing between the two agents and friends.

"It's good to have you back, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said and Napoleon nodded agreement. It had been a close thing this time.

"Well, we've got Barrett. That's one result—" Napoleon stopped when he saw the other two exchange meaningful glances. "What is it?"

Waverly cleared his throat. "Mr. Barrett and his two associates were escorted down in the lift by agents Pinner, Doyle, Warrington and Lee. We found the lift stopped at the second floor with the bodies of the agents inside together with the corpse of one of the Thrush operatives."

"Johnson," Illya supplied.

"Pinner? Lee?" The disbelief was written large over Napoleon's features. "All four of them?"

Mr. Waverly nodded. "A shocking waste of young life."

Napoleon was still reeling with the news about the deaths. "I ate lunch with Warrington the day before yesterday. We were talking about cars… And next Monday was Pinner's birthday…"

Illya was silent. He felt just as keenly the loss of his colleagues.

"How did it happen?"

"They're not sure," Illya said. "It looks like Johnson jumped one of them and took his gun…sacrificed himself to give the other two a chance."

"That means Barrett's still out there…"

The three of them pondered this in somber silence.

"We'll find him," Napoleon said bleakly and Illya nodded. It was more of an oath than a promise.

"I'm counting on it." Mr. Waverly checked his watch. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Doyle's plane should just have touched down. Get better quickly, Mr. Solo. U.N.C.L.E. needs Mr. Kuryakin and yourself in peak condition." He turned on his heel and left.

"At least we'll be finding him together." Napoleon studied his partner. "I wish I'd been there when the drug wore off."

Illya gave a slight smile. "It was about half an hour after we left the flat. It was…" he paused remembering the inner relief and joy at being able to move his fingers once more, "a remarkable experience."

"I'm glad you're back, partner. Has the Old Man sent you out on assignment yet?"

"Mmm. Tonight, in fact. I've got to pick up my tuxedo."

"Formal dress?"

"Charity ball."

"I see. And—er…?" Napoleon nodded towards Illya's burns.

"Gloves, of course."

"Of course."

Illya waited. He knew curiosity was high up on the list of Napoleon's weaknesses.

"So is it a courier run? Protection? Intelligence gathering?"

"I'm meeting someone. Someone who likes to dance."

Napoleon looked at him sharply. "Not by any chance someone who also enjoys archery and classical music?"

A beatific grin spread across Illya's face. "And horse-riding and ice-skating," he quoted. "I'll let you know how I get on."

Napoleon watched him leave with a soupcon of jealousy. He was comforted a moment later by the recollection of page two of the Countess' hobbies: let Illya have fun with the water-skiing and the fire-eating. Not to mention the lion-taming.

He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face and a vision of Illya balancing on one water-ski while juggling a fire-breathing lion.


End file.
